Thursday, February 21, 2013

The Quiet

A cushioned cloister of snow-soft sounds. A feather-world of silent flakes. A hush, a whisper, a kiss.

And I think, I love snow. I love its padded footsteps, a cat on a carpet. It's delicate see-saw dance. It's etch-a-sketch magic. It's a call to pause, to breath, to step outside and be.

Yesterday evening I was walking along the rim. It had been threatening to snow all day, big bruised clouds riding in and out of the canyon. Then about a mile from my home, I realized I had wandered among a herd of elk. Eight, nine, ten of them so close I could see their whiskers, hear the crunch of sage and juniper against their ivory-colored teeth. And then, just then, it started to snow, and in that cold rush of white, thought flushed from my mind, and I stood stock still for a very long time.

I needed to memorize that moment. The feeling it brought. The sense of immutable beauty. I was nothing on the edge of something grand. And elks were grazing and the snow was falling, and the world was so very, very sublime.

3 comments:

I can feel being there, but not. An amazing moment--harkening luminaras on Christmas Eve in Itasca, snow falling ever so gently enough to land on branches, without disturbance of either the glorified trees or lights that paved our way from one joy to another.

About Me

Naseem is a geologist, journalist, author, storyteller, and mother. Her writing on this blog are her own personal views. For more information on Naseem's book The Crying Tree and her presentations go to: http://www.naseemrakha.com